


gets off on being down

by doubt



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Attention Seeking Behavior, Gen, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, thats it, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubt/pseuds/doubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tyler would do anything for attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gets off on being down

“you’d do anything for attention, wouldn’t you, ya fuckin’ whore?” tyler whispers to himself. he’s pulling a rough piece of white string around his neck, tightening it as it goes round. he can feel his face becoming number, watches as it goes a pale blue. his pulse rings through the back of his neck and it feels the same as when he swallows and the rope-like string tightens around his adam’s apple. he swallows again and grins.

“yeah, that’s right i would. _anything_. i hope they find me.” he ties a perfect bow into the string, right over his voice box, and it _stings_. it’s perfectly even; he’s made sure every time he twists the rope round his neck that the ends are even. he gulps and draws in a deep breath. his jaw is still numb.

he taps the mirror and stares at his pretty face in it. light blue contrasts with his coffee skin and his eyes are a bloody red. if only it were his irises and not the sclerae that changed color. tightening the bow, tyler rests his head on the mirror. sinks to his feet and crosses his legs and rubs his arms down his grey-blue skinny jeans. to match his face. he looks like a goddamn _slut_ in his tight tight pants and jacket zipped halfway up his curved torso and he thinks he’d probably ravage himself if he had the chance. his eyelids are a mess of black paint and oh no he's giggling he doesn't _mean to giggle he just is._

he gets up and goes to the light switch by his door. he could leave the room right now and find his mother and show her the rope around his neck. she would faint and he would not care he’d just be left to _die_. or maybe she’d just let him do his bit and not pay him the slightest bit of attention like he wants her to and now tyler is _angry_. a red angry that threatens to pop out through the whites of his eyes and he turns off the lights. what does a boy have to do to get some attention around here? kill himself, that’s what.

“bet you can’t even do that, fucking useless _whore_.” he giggles at the words leaving his mouth. “you’re not gonna fucking go through with this you’re gonna take off the goddamn rope and go to bed and you won’t tell _anyone_.” and he just giggles again.

“oh, you don’t think? fuckin’ watch me!” he breaks out into a fi tof laughter, confused laughter, why is he laughing. death and suicide are _not_ a laughing matter _oh no he’s going to die._ he backs away from the wall, towards his bed, nearly tripping over his bass guitar, which is strewn across the floor along with his millions of clothes he _never_ wears, and squeals. he’s bumped his knee on the bedpost. “good fucking job, tyler.”

he doesn’t have any discouragement to reply to himself with.

“um, um, why _shouldn’t_ i kill myself...aha!” he’s found a reason, lying on his bed with his knee in the air. “no one can give me attention when i’m dead!” wait, no no, _no_. he laughs. “no they’ll pay me more attention when i’m dead. they’ll visit my headstone every _fucking_ day and cry over me they’d fucking _better_ what if they don’t oh my _god_ i’m fucking doing this.”

he lays his knee down. he can do better than that. no he _can’t_. the reasonable aspect of his brain, the _nagging nagging nagging_ “get the rope off your fucking neck _now_ , mister,” has stopped.

“i’ll just pay myself some goddamn attention if no one else is going to,” he mumbles, and unbuttons his jeans to pull them down and jack off because what else are you meant to do when you’re slowly dying from a lack of oxygen? wait, no he’s dying from the circulation to his head being cut off, he’s still breathing just fine he can just feel his pulse pounding in his ears heavier than his bass guitar when he turns it all the way up and now that's all he can think about, that goddamn _pulse_. and he hasn’t masturbated in so long. talk about going out with a _bang_. he laughs at his own joke.

“not fucking funny, tyler. this isn’t funny stop it what are you _doing_.” and he moans because he’s touched his _fucking_ slit and here’s an incentive or whatever it’s called to appease the reasonable aspect of his brain or _whatever it’s fucking called_ which seems to have returned from whatever _fucking_ war he’s got going on with himself.

“if i can get myself to come _before_ die i’ll get rid of the rope.” and that seems to be reason enough. he starts jacking himself faster, maybe because he actually _wants_ to live. no. he doesn’t. he just once to have an orgasm because he hasn’t had one in a good while and what if he can’t jack off when he’s dead? what’s he meant to do then? this isn’t because he wants to live, it’s because he wants to come.

he’s reminded of that _emo boy wants to cum more than he wants to die_ thing his boyfriend told him about. _oh_ , his boyfriend his _beautiful_ goddamn boyfriend if only he were here he could save tyler. maybe. “wouldn’t want to die if josh was here, would you?”

he reaches up to his neck with his left hand, adjusting the rope so it’s a bit looser. “stop _fucking_ cheating. if i come i don’t die and that’s _all_.” he runs his thumb over his slit again.

“but now you’re speeding up, does that mean you don’t wanna die? so what’s the harm in cheating if you won’t die anyway?” he groans, but this time not in ecstasy or sexual pleasure or anything. he’s exasperated.

“it _has_ to be fair. it has to be _fuck_ ing _fair nothing’s fucking fair or neat_ i’m a goddamn _mess_ just let me have this before i suffocate.” and he’s right, nothing is neat, his room is a mess, his beloved bass guitar is on the floor. he’s sure they have bass in hell, because bass is a fucking _turn on_ for him and sex is a sin. or something. _enjoying_ sex is a sin. that’s right. which means being turned on is a sin which means _bass_ is a sin, which means bass will be in hell and he’ll be in hell too because he killed himself. so he’s not going to miss his bass if he dies.

“what will your mom think if she finds out you died while jacking off?” he mutters. “she’ll _know_ how much of a whore you are. oh, she already does. but that’ll be fucking _embarrassing_.” he giggles and the laugh breaks off into another moan, he’s _so close_.

“can’t get embarrassed when i’m dead. wouldn’t be fucking embarrassed _anyway_ , she’s walked in on worse things.” he shakes his head at himself and, just for a second, realizes he’s kinda happy that he’s got a chance at living if he comes.

“you’re _such_ a slut, i’m done with you.” and now he’s not even paying himself attention except where he physically needs it both most and least. tyler’s holding his breath like he always does when he comes and _oh_ , he comes. fucking hot and wet and all over himself and now he has to take the rope off but it’s sticky and he feels like he’s going to pass out.

he coughs. “come on, ty, get it off.” he wipes his hand on his leg quickly and reaches up to undo the bow like he promised himself he would. “oh my _god_ , what was i doing fuck,” and he tugs the rope looser around his neck until it falls to his collarbone and he’s clutching the rope burn on his adam's apple, voice rough as he mutters “i’m alive i’m alive i’m alive” and he could have _died_.

boys will do anything for attention.

**Author's Note:**

> yall should get #bringbackblurryjoshler to trend on twitter ill pay money


End file.
